


First Memory

by TheRedHero11037



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedHero11037/pseuds/TheRedHero11037
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Sephiroth can remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Memory

The memory is strange and unusual and can be summed up, like the rest of my young life, with a bitter man with greasy hair. Why was he so bitter? I did not know, nor did I care. I remember that here I am just a toddler and that one day I will learn that lots of horrible things happen here and I am one of them.

It is far too late for a child to be up and wandering through sterile white halls he is not supposed to be in. That’s the thrill of it, though I am not aware that I am thrilled. I am not aware of very much, actually, because I am so small. No one is around.

No one is around and I am lonely. I want my mother. Everything is big and white and scary. I want my mother. Where is my mother? I haven’t seen her anywhere. These hallways are not a place child should be. There are too many people in white coats looking mean or pushing gurneys down the long white halls. I must have been walking for ages.

I have almost been hit by 7 doors or more. People are rushing around. I turn a corner and take a rest against a wall. There’s an announcement I do not understand, and suddenly men dressed in blue shirts pick me up. I know they don’t want me hurt, but at the same time, I am too scared to properly process these things so I begin to cry. The man holding me looks at the other. I pull his hair. I am not polite.  
They walk, and the man holds me because I am small and also will not let go of his hair. His hair is soft and smooth and black. It upsets me. I hold it harder and wail.

I eventually decide that these men know my mother and know where she is and that he is going to give me to her so she can sooth me. This makes me calm down, but I am still teary eyed and scared, so I shut my eyes tight.

I keep myself in the darkness and think about my mother. How her hair feels, how her hands warm me when I need comfort, how her voice is high and young and nervous. The man hands me off and I grab for my mother’s hair. 

This is not my mother. This hair is thin and greasy like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. These hands are cold and gloved. This voice crying out as I hold tight is a man’s, and it is disgusted and upset and grating.

“Miserable little thing,” the man scoffs. “Stupid, stupid little thing.” I let tears drip down my fat toddler cheeks. I’m going to cry again. The man wrinkles up his nose and holds me at arm’s length, or at least as much as possible the way I am holding onto his greasy hair. “What were you even hoping to accomplish, you little brat?” He squints at me from behind his glasses.

I speak the only word I can think of. “Mother?”

The man lets out a long sigh. “Your mother is dead. You killed her, don’t you remember? She’s never coming back, thanks to you.”

My first memory is the night I learned what death meant.


End file.
